Mags, the smoke thick in the night, steps over Mode's corpse, the blood leaking from his gut reflecting the firelight, the flames thick in the night. She has the sudden thought that she's somehow killed this man before.
The citizens of Omega Canyon are screaming.
After shooting their way out of The Emperor, Dex ran for the schoolhouse, Wraith for the Star office, Cal for the old Hanged Man. They knew already, in their bones, that they were all already burning. People still needed protecting though.
Mags shoots another man who is about to shoot her. She's trying to size things up, make a count of things. Who started the shooting?
She can see, in the distance, the smoke parting like a curtain in the hot wind conjured up by the fire, that Que's manor is burning too. Glancing back, through more gunfire and screams, she sees that The Emperor is on fire.
War's come to Omega.
And then a figure in the midst of it, standing opposite Mags. She realizes that she's wandered into the main street, where Sugarcube and Logollos had drawn on each other. Do some things have beginnings?
Their hat is pulled low, a bandana pulled up high, face covered, thick duster and smoke and firelight making it hard to measure size, posture.
"You see what's happenin', Maggie?" they shout. Something about the voice. A knowing in it.
She thinks for a moment that it's Darius. Then she wonders if it's him, if Sugarcube's come back. She knows that she should know, that she should be able to tell, feels embarrassed that she can't. Truth is that things have never been quite right since the journey to the Horsebreeder's ranch.
"Tell me what's happenin', stranger!" Mags shouts back.
"Well, the bounty hunter was already there. She had rode in the night before, took a room at The Emperor. After checkin' The Hanged Man and learnin' it was shut down.
"So she's sittin' at the table in the corner with her rifle laid right out in front o' her, like she's darin' anyone to cross her. See, the clientelle was a lot o' hired guns workin' for the oil folks, mostly to guard shipments and the like, and sometimes keep the workin' folk in line. They were generally a fairly surly group, the kind you'd reasonably 'spect to trouble a lady sittin' by her lonesome in a Saloon.
"None of 'em troubled Mags Magenta though.
"And after a time the other three showed up and it was almost a reunion of the posse from the Incident last year, 'cept the Preacher wasn't there. The ex-sheriff, the ex-Marshal and the ex-gambler. They got to talkin' - I figures they were catchin' the bounty hunter up on all that had come to pass. The oil, the Mayor, the Law and the Wagoners.
"Part o' me woulda loved to been eavesdroppin' on that chat, just to know how exactly all this mess sounded in the tellin'. If any of it made any gorram sense or whether it was sense that died the day of the Logollos-Sugarcube showdown, if it was the corpse of normalcy and reason and right-thinkin' that they found in that coffin...
"The part left o' me though, if I'm to be truthful, is glad I never heard just what they said. They were an odd bunch, spooky and dangerous. For some reason, imaginin' what their conversation woulda been like makes me feel like when Pa would tell us ghost stories 'round the fire on cold winter nights.
"It wasn't long after that when the gents seated by the window began whisperin' that the Sheriff was outside.
Some say the War started way back when Sugarcube and Logollos had their showdown in the main street of Omega Canyon. Some say it started during the Incident at Judgement Grotto. They'll say it was already being fought when Mayor Weldwood Que appointed Angus Mode, a man of dubious reputation, as Deputy Sheriff (rumours had it that Dexter Washington had turned down the job). That the launch of The Omega Times newspaper, in direct competition with the existing Canyon Star and with a generous government grant, was a battle in that War. That another battle was the closing of The Hanged Man Saloon after its liquor license was revoked, leaving The Emperor Saloon to cater to the needs of all the oil workers newly arrived to the Canyon. The oil was flowing and business, for some, was booming. Trade coming through the Canyon was on the rise but most local shops couldn't compete with the merchants from the Coast and Temperance City who'd arrived once the drilling began. Most of the money, like the oil, was being sucked out of the Canyon. Farmers who had sold their land to the drills (rumours of strong-arming were plenty) found themselves living in the increasingly cramped town in shoddily-built houses (the building crews managed by Temperance businessmen who didn't even live in the Canyon). Much the same lot for the oil workers, who earned only enough to pay rent to well-to-do landlords and drink their troubles away at The Emperor. Folks resorted to a lot of black market trade, which the Deputy Sheriff was in charge of stamping out; when seen in the streets in his finely-tailored suits he would half-heartedly lament the lack of success on "poor cooperation from the community". The Mayor proposed consolidating the handful of small schoolhouses into one institution, in a new building funded by donations from the oil merchants, to "ensure a consistent education for the future leaders of Omega Canyon". The Hanged Man Saloon was converted into cheap rooms for oil workers. The Omega Times ran story after story about the dawning of a new age of prosperity for the Canyon. Battles fought? Some say the War didn't really begin until The Wagoners appeared...
Brogan set the empty glass on the bar. "That's a quality drink, Mr. Lokk." Callan held up the bottle of whisky, offering a second shot, but Brogan shook his head. "At least when I give you my money now," he went on with a smirk, "I get something in return, unlike the many times I gave it to you at the poker table." Callan chuckled. "My apologies." "None necessary. You out-played me." "Since we're not gambling now, why don't we go ahead and put all our cards on the table right away? I'm aware that Mr. Que is planning to propose that one of the two saloons in the Canyon have its liquor license revoked. He will claim he is concerned about the effects of unchecked drinking given the influx of new workers to the region." Brogan gestured to the bottle and Callan poured a second shot as he continued speaking. "And I'm aware that the saloon he allows to continue operating will undoubtedly be the one he feels will best support his goals as Mayor." Brogan took a sip. "We both know that the kind of talk that is either encouraged or discouraged at the local watering hole can have a profound impact on the opinions of a community. And that the support of a Mayor is beneficial for anyone doing business in said community..."
Previously in v.Western... * It was a dark time for Omega Canyon. A year had passed since The Incident at Judgement Grotto. The rumours about what had happened far outnumbered the facts and the townsfolk were content to let the tales be, as if telling them was like to summon trouble. While the certainties about what had transpired in the graveyard that night - and about how it had led to the ranch of a mysterious horsebreeder being burned down - were few, there were some details about what followed that were plainly agreed upon. Logollos and his corrupt ways were gone. Driven out or shot down, folks wouldn't offer a guess either way. He wasn't missed. The lawman Dexter Washington had given up his badge and taken up residence in the Canyon, opening a small schoolhouse. The marshal Wednesday Wraith had also unpinned her star and become a part-owner of the local printing press. She had began publishing a newspaper. Callan Lokk had won The Hanged Man Saloon in a card game, kept the original owner in his employ, and given up gambling. A new graveyard had been fenced-off and consecrated - the final act of the priest Darius Angelus before he disappeared. The last of the strangers who had ridden into town the day before The Incident had also disappeared, the bounty hunter Mags Magenta. Those were the handful of facts but out of the many, many rumours one was generally considered to be true: that when the grave of the strange drifter Sugarcube had been opened that mysterious night it was not his body they found inside. However odd, The Incident and what came of it had actually changed the fortune of the Canyon for the better. The reversal of that fortune, and the cause of the current troubles, began shortly after when the Office of Frontier Affairs arrived and announced the discovery of oil in the land surrounding Omega...
Tim said, "I'm really sorry to hear that." Dexter said, "Please don't take it personally, my friend. I've loved every minute I've sat at this table." "You've been a great addition to the group, Dex. Congratulations though! Getting accepted to university is a big deal." "I'm excited. And nervous. I've always wanted to get out of this town, but I'll miss it at the same time." "I get it. It's complicated." Dex smiled. "Very. Very 'metaplex' as Max would say. Not being able to game is another downer." "There will always be a seat for you here and the coffee will always be on." * "So, what are you going to do with Frank then?" Wednesday asked. Tim winked. "Now that would be telling. Actually, since Frank is Dexter's character I'm going to let him decide, and I will adjust the campaign around that." "This is maybe a bad time to bring it up, but... Well, it looks like my promotion might be going through." "That's great news!" "Except it means I will be travelling every other weekend..." "Ah." "So we may have to figure out a reason for Angst to be missing every other session... If you think that would even work?" "We'll make it work somehow." * Callan sighed. "I suppose I wonder if it all still works. The overall story, I mean. If Frank gets written out, and Angst only appears occasionally... Maybe it's time we start a new campaign?" "But what happens to Goner and Suki then? Are you tired of playing Goner?" Tim asked. "Not at all. The new cyborg angle has been really interesting. But how many changes can you make to a story before it doesn't make sense anymore?" "Games aren't stories, though." Callan smiled. "And we're back to the central question, aren't we? When we get together every Saturday night what exactly are we doing? Playing a game or telling a story?" "Or is it a magical ritual, as Max would say?" * Tim sipped at his coffee. "So it comes down to you, Darius. Dexter's leaving, Wednesday's only going to be able to play half as often, and Cal is having some doubts about the story continuing. What do you think? Keep going with the adventures of Goner and Suki and sometimes Angst? Start a new game?" Darius sipped at his coffee. "Actually Tim, I have some news..."
"Maybe we should be out looking for Darius instead," Dexter said. Wraith poured herself a glass of wine. "He can handle himself. You never really believed that, did you?" "It's the cop in me," he replied, a self-conscious shrug. Callan entered with a large cardboard box, placed it on the couch. Wraith had charged the suite to the media conglomerate she was currently under contract with. They thought she was working on a story about the latest Big Pharma scandal - a rash of medicines proving toxic after they hit the market. Maybe I am; maybe it's all connected, she thought. Callan said, "I told the girl at the print shop that I was working on my Ph.D thesis and needed a hardcopy backup. Hm, maybe I am; I could probably get a doctorate out of trying to explain Max." Wraith noted the similar phrasing: 'maybe I am'. This kind of thing tended to happen when Max was involved. "Is this so we can't get hacked while we're researching?" Dexter asked. "In part," Callan said as he started to unpack the file folders from the box, arranging them on the coffee table. "There's a different magic to paper too." It is like a spell of sorts, Wraith thought, taking a sip of wine. All the blog posts, all the letters and emails, all the writing by the man they knew as Max Cube that they could get their hands on. This was phase one; the next step would be to hit up all of their contacts for relevant police reports, psychiatric files, military records and so on. That, however, was a move that wouldn't go unnoticed. Dexter watched Callan laying out the documents. "The hardest part is going to be figuring out what are journal entries, what are essays, what are short stories and what are delusions..."
The ground shook again, dislodging more rubble from the bombed-out buildings. Shadows swept across the ground from the light of the flares in the night sky, voices hollow and fuzzy with static calling out over malfunctioning sound-systems, repeating emergency protocol directions that were very 'too-little-too-late'. Mick strolled down the centre of the cracked and scorched street as if all the lights and noise were a massive party; this wasn't his first apocalypse. In a lot of ways he felt at home in disaster zones; they were somehow more honest. His contacts were less brazen, with good reason Mick figured, given that of the ever-increasing number of factions in what appeared to be a cold-war-turned-hot-turning-nova most likely had capture or kill orders out on them. They signalled to him with a pre-arranged series of flashlight blinks from the shadows of a ruined hotel lobby. "Okay," Mick said, hunkered down behind the front desk. "First off, no I haven't gotten any leads on who the double-agent is. I don't doubt your intel, especially given the source, but there are so many variables in play right now... "Second, Goner's rejoined Max, Frank and Angst, so they're active again as a cell. Plus they've gotten a lead on Mags - sounds like she's changed too. "As for Suki, it looks like she's actually shifted along the Chronoplex - that's what we're calling it now, right? She seems to be in a much older version of herself. I know, it's not the first-time Suki's age has altered. No idea if or how she's going to intersect with the others. "The Diner crew... Things are still different with them too... Like they're on a different frequency from the other Dragons? I dunno, I feel like something's brewing there. "Max has got his spirit guides in play, the bird and the talking cat. Still nothing from Aqua. Oh, but get this - I found this weird urban legend about this strange warrior-monk type-guy who wanders the globe, actually walking, no planes or buses. He's this dirty bearded vagabond, stops briefly to debate about things like Confucianism or Norse Mythology. Sometimes does a bit of intervening on a street-level if there's some injustice happening, and ain't there always? There's versions of the tale where he seeks out a vision at holy places, the hidden Temple of the Sky on Everest, the sacred glass monolith at the centre of the Sahara Desert, the keystone of the Great Wall of China that contains the last essence of the demon Hrarchuta who sacrificed his immortality to save his love, the angelic Yuriti... It's great stuff; I wish I'd written it. But it's got to be our boy Akimoto, right? "And lastly, just so I'm keeping track, so far there's the Chronoplex, the Paraplex, and the Ultraplex? Now, how about you share with me: do we know yet what exactly has kicked off this whole mess between the System and Counter-System?" The contacts exchanged glances. Suddenly a swarm of sirens began wailing outside and the thunder of helicopters erupted overhead. Mick sighed. "I get it, 'to be continued'."
Mick opened the locker and removed the satchel, headed to the nearest washroom. The intercom rattled off train arrival and departure notifications in a bland, synthetic voice. A security drone hummed over the swarm of commuters. Mick had taken two capsules of Glamour before arriving at the station and run some invisibility mantras - he'd be cloaked from any surveillance for about an hour. Unless the Sidhe showed up, which meant things were fucked anyway. Hunkered in a stall, Mick unzipped the satchel. There was a hardcover book, one of the sourcebooks for the Aeon Triumph Gun MessiahsRPG. A pencil and a piece of paper. Mick used the book as a firm surface to write on, scrawling notes quickly with the pencil on the paper. Four System operations identified. Two Counter-System activities being monitored, plus one potential. Pretty George might be dead. Max has made contact with Dexter, Wraith and Callan - still not sure if they've joined the System or have been recruited by Counter. No contact with Darius (he's been running on a parallel stream ever since the Millennium Incident I think, which Max doesn't know much about, either because he wasn't there or can't remember). Max is still working closely with Angst and Frank. Goner's gone dark. Suki seems to be missing. Aqua disappeared with the remains of the Subway car. I've got some rumours on Akimoto to follow-up on. The name Summer keeps coming up...? No confirmed contact with Maggie. No clues yet to which one is the double-agent. Any idea what the fuck exactly is going on? Mick folded the paper once and tucked it inside the book. He noticed the page he had randomly opened to: the description and stats for one of the Vatars that players could summon once they reached level 13 as a Gun Messiah. 'The Void'. He shivered. Then sneered. Mick was not the superstitious type.
"It's a combination of psychoanalysis, cognitive behavioural techniques, Grofian holotropic breathwork, Celtic paganism, and Taoist sorcery. Sessions can run from an hour to three, usually no more than once every two weeks, maybe more often if the person is struggling. It's formal but fluid, like a martial art I suppose." Max sipped his tea. "Are you accepting new patients?" Callan smiled. "Now that would be a conflict-of-interest, but you know that." Max smiled. "Who said it was for me? Are you suggesting I need some therapy?" Callan smiled too and looked at Max. Max held his gaze. Their banter was a script, they both knew it, the rote exchanges that people performed almost unconsciously, but when two experts at communication were involved the artifice of it all was too apparent. Callan was anticipating Max commenting that it seemed as if Callan was trying to prove himself, justify his new career path, and he had his argument ready, about the merits of slow and graceful change rather than the sound and fury of their action-adventure exploits, about supporting individuals in gentle ways, about how real change and real healing was a long process. Except Callan also knew that Max knew a comment like that could sound like a judgement, and that Max liked to pretend or at least perform that he was very non-judgmental. And furthermore, that by insisting Callan had nothing to prove Max would be implicitly positioning himself as the authority even as he explicitly denied the role. And Callan was also acknowledging that part of him did feel as if he had to prove himself, to validate this new approach to the kind of work that they had all been doing for so long; and Callan knew that his relationship with Max was in many ways a manifestation of that dynamic within himself, that Max was in some sense a spirit he had summoned into his life to challenge him and push him to be better. Callan knew too that Max knew all of this, and that Max was at the very same moment wondering if he should make the comment about Callan proving himself and if doing so would somehow prove that everything Callan was thinking was true. And somewhere within the swirling, tangled mesh of subtext and near-telepathic mutual understanding was the mystery of what Max really did think about Callan becoming a practicing psychologist... And what Callan really thought about what Max thought... They both sipped their tea.
The last time that the drifter they called 'Sugarcube' - some stories said it was his sweet disposition, others involved a penchant for using treats to lure horses away from their rightful owners - had been through Omega Canyon it'd been a quiet, restful place. A good town to find a bit o' work or to lay low if need be, for whatever such reasons as a wanderin' soul with a knack for trouble-makin', or at least trouble-findin', might have. The folk of Omega were welcoming and not likely to inquire, so long as the trouble stayed out o' the Canyon. But, as is the way of things, the town had changed. A mysterious landowner had moved in and he had brought a lot of two things with him: money and bad intentions. Wasn't long before the man they called Logollos had bent the will and the ways of the Canyon to a murkier, downright poisonous, disposition. So when Sugarcube returned and voiced his distaste with the new cruelties he found in the former haven, well, it led, as it often does, to a showdown in the main street. Whether Logollos won the draw fair-and-square or whether there was some species o' chicanery involved was a truth kept hidden by the townsfolk. And whether that was outta spite or fear was another mystery in itself. But truth always has its seekers, and mysteries beg to be solved... And so it was that some weeks after Sugarcube was gunned down in the street that a misfit gang of gunfighters rode into Omega Canyon lookin' to avenge the death of their friend. A bounty hunter, a sheriff, a gambler, a marshal, and a preacher. And, to borrow a phrase, Hell followed with them.
Half an hour later he was finishing the first donut with a smile. “Thanks, Cal.”
“You're welcome,” Callan said. “I feel more than a little responsible for you being stuck here.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You needed back-up to stop whatever the hell that was, and I told you to call me anytime. It's not your fault the – what did you call them?”
“Guà iwù.”
“That they set the building on fire.”
“If you hadn't intervened with the police, the truth may have come out. Which would have had further undesirable consequences.”
“Like us being sent to the looney bin.” Dex smiled again, bit into the second donut. “Callan, I don't pretend to have clue what is going on with all this weird, mystical stuff. Between your Guà iwù and Darius' Undead I am way outta my depth these days. But I figure I became a cop to stop bad things from happening to people and this qualifies.”
Callan nodded. “There has been an alarming rise in manifestations of ancient evils lately... However, if I may speak honestly, my real concern is not with the return of forces from the past but with the arrival of... even stranger forces from the future.”
Dex had been a detective for years now. He had the instincts. “You're talking about Max.”
Callan Lokk served briefly as an Ensign under (then) Lt. Comm. Magenta at the Oracle Outpost Wind where he assisted in running the Metawave transmissions that allowed for interplanetary travel and communication within the Haven Zone. Lokk was always a more talented Meta-tech than his rank or posting suggested, and when his curiousity led him to conduct some off-book scans he discovered encrypted clues to Legacy's many conspiracies. Lokk kept the knowledge secret for years until he was re-assigned to The Dragon. His trust in Capt. Magenta finally prompted him to reveal what he had learned. He brought his expertise to the fight against Legacy as the acting Chief of Science.
“Things had gotten strange. Even stranger, I guess. And they had gotten desperate. More fragmented than ever. Things were happening out of order. Max was experiencing different versions with a different team. One of them had died but they got her back. Then another was killed. The man they called The Professor was experimenting with something they called Plexotron technology, remixing events like they were music. And another man was hunting Max, a man called Morganfokker.
“It seemed like everywhere we went Morganfokker was waiting, and people started to get hurt. Memphis, Precious, Summer, Amber... He got to all of them. As a way to get to us. And Max thought he had figured it out. Morganfokker was able to track us through plureality because we were a convergence. Our signals were amplified because we were all in sync. So the answer was to separate.
“We needed to hide, to go our own ways. Go to dark places, dangerous places. So that Morganfokker couldn't find us. It was the only way we could keep each other safe, keep other people from being used as pawns against us. That's why we broke into the Temple, fought our way to the final chamber. The Seven Lotus Portals were our way out. It was an escape plan.
“We would keep seeking, keep trying to find a way to fight back, and hopefully reunite someday. In the meantime, no one else would get hurt.
“Except that when we went through the portals we all ended up here, together. Trapped. And the Demon invasion had already started. So we did what we were used to doing, teamed up and fought back. And the invasion became a war." Darius didn't have any answers about the Eyes, the Grids, the Gutters, what the world had been like before the Demons came. The Dragons learned what they could about the rules of this reality and helped build Frontline. They helped create Haven ("How old are all of you?" "Don't get me started about time and plureality.") They helped keep the Demons back long enough for the Arcana to start forging a new world amidst the ruins of the old. He told Marshal about Aqua's Sacrifice, about Callan's Transformation, about Wraith's Curse, and about Dexter's Sickness. He told him about Maggie's Fall ("Dark Maggie, like Dark Willow, or Dark Phoenix I guess, if you want to go that far back - it must be a Magical Redhead trope." "I don't understand what any of that means..."). There were wins and a lot of losses. There were different theories about why they were here. Had something gone wrong with the Portals? Had Max made a mistake? Had Control tricked them? Was this what the world looked like without Morganfokker? And then Darius told Marshal about the Disappearance of Max Cube.
Callan tensed atop the rubble. Dex took Marshal's arm. “We need to go, we have to keep moving.”
Marshal bent to retrieve his staff. “Wait, what about Darius?” In the stories of the Dragons there were always four of them. Marshal had wondered if there was some unconscious symbolism at work: four Dragons, four Agencies of Haven. The Staves, The Swords, the Cups, The Coins. Dexter, Wraith, Callan, and Darius.
“He stayed behind,” Dex said. “He wasn't ready to leave.”
“Could he have survived?” Marshal asked. Callan descended quietly from his perch, pointing to the left. Dex nodded at the gesture.
“Like Wraith said, we're way past impossible. Now come on, there are more closing.”
“No. I'm going to find Darius. I have to know.”
“I'll tell you every damn answer to every damn question you have, once we've made it back to Haven. They have to be warned.”
Marshal shook his head. “It's... It's not the same. I have to complete my mission. I have to see Frontline for myself. Especially if we are at the end of things.”
Dex sighed. “Son, you will not make it there -”
“I will take him,” Wraith said, returning from the shadows. “Callan can see you safely to Haven so they can at least be told what is coming. And you need to find out why the Arcana let this guy come out here alone. One final mystery.”
Dex stared at Wraith. Marshal had the sense that her mask meant nothing to Dex, that he could see exactly what she was thinking and feeling. She made that same casual shrug. They both looked to Callan, who nodded.
Marshal gave Dex his staff, an upgrade from the cane.
And so it came to be that Wraith and Marshal parted from Callan and Dex, and traveled for days through the borderlands, foraging for edible weeds and rainwater, hiding often, evading – as only a legendary Ninja could – the clusters of Demons marching towards Haven. Wraith said little. Marshal warned her that his dose of Cloak would expire soon; she began teaching him meditations that would shroud him from the Eyes. On the fourth day Marshal saw a frenzied burst of putrid colours on the horizon; Wraith told him that it was discharge from an active but corrupted Grid. By the journey's end Marshal felt toxic, he felt purged, felt broken and forged.
And so Marshal came at last to Frontline, where he met the last Dragon, Darius.
“That's cute,” Wraith said. “Look around. Do you think that word has any meaning anymore?”
“Wraith,” another voice said, a new figure entering the scene. Elderly, stooped, using a cane. “Remember this version is all he has ever known.”
Wraith made a movement like a shrug and faded into the shadows. Callan sniffed the air and perched atop a mound of rubble, keeping watch. The old man walked over to Marshal. Extended his hand. “My name is Dex. Good to meet you.”
The stories about Dexter Washington told of a brave peacekeeper, a warrior and leader devoted to justice and willing to break the rules to achieve it. Despite the man's age and frailty, Marshal could immediately sense the accuracy of the tales. The handshake was strong in a way that transcended muscle and bone. “I'm Marshal, of the Staves. Is it true? About Frontline?”
Dex frowned. “It is. The last of the Swords stationed with us fell two days ago. We fought for another day, until... Well, I know 'tactical withdrawal' is just a fancy way of saying 'retreat'. But it's better than 'surrender' I guess.”
Marshal's eyes were wide. The people of Haven lived in fear of destruction by the Demon Army. They always had. The Swords were dedicated to preventing that fate. And much of the work of the Cups and Coins went towards supporting the Swords. The losses of the soldiers that never returned from battle were keenly felt and only served to reinforce how precious and fragile the sanctuary of Haven was. And yet the threat, so permanent and omnipresent, had become almost abstracted, another story to be told but not fully believed.
Another story that was coming true.
Dexter sighed. “I'm sorry, son. We failed you. After everything...” And Marshal sensed that he was talking about more than losing Frontline, more than the War, maybe even more than the Fall?
“You just saved my life,” Marshal said. Trying to give them something.
“Why are you out here?” Dex asked.
“I was looking for you. I was... curious. I wanted to know... I needed to know...”
“And the Arcana let you go? Alone?” Dex looked troubled. Exchanged a glance with Callan.
Too much was happening. The stench of Demon's blood in the air. “How, sir? How did it happen?” As if understanding the cause and effect would make it more digestible. The same reason he was out here in the borderlands in the first place?
Dex looked both sad and angry. “Well. It turns out that Max was wrong. Wrong about Control. Wrong about Morganfokker. Wrong about everything.”
The Staves kept detailed records of all the activities in Haven. They organized and directed, they administered. They assisted and coordinated with the Arcana Council to ensure that Haven continued. And when they could they researched what they could of the world outside Haven, like investigating a crime scene or performing an autopsy. They had learned about the Eyes, they knew something of the Gutters and the Grids, and they knew about the Demons. What was still a mystery was the Fall itself; how the world had come to be this way and why. Who built the Gutters and Grids, what gave birth to the Eyes, and what started the War with the Demons. There were as many theories as Staves, and the Cups and Coins had their own, as well. The Swords had little time or inclination to speculate, but the rumours they brought back from Frontline suggested that the Dragons had answers to these questions.
And the Dragons were real, Marshal could now see. As real as the stories about them. Callan, chest heaving, claws dripping with gore from the slaughtered Demon. The first Demon; three more had appeared from the ruins. Callan adjusted his stance, a strange mix of grace and ferocity in his movement. The Demons, sharp edges and menace, slowly spread out as they crept closer, preparing to flank their prey. Marshal quickly looked around for cover. The pistol and his staff were shaking in his hands; he knew that he should drop the staff for a better grip on the gun but couldn't bring himself to do it. There were no mantras anymore, only the hissing and scratching of the approaching monstrosities. There was no visualization anymore, only the combat unfolding before him.
And the sight of another figure entering the scene. A woman, masked, brandishing a pair of tonfas. Marching calmly and quickly from the shadows towards the Demon on the left. By the mask she wore, carved in resemblance of the creatures she now faced, Marshal recognized her as Wraith. The Ninja. The Assassin. The left Demon halted and snapped its dripping jaws as Wraith closed, and suddenly Callan sprang forth, another growling leap, diving upon the distracted left Demon, another vicious attack. And Wraith moved in the exact same moment, launching into a series of precision cartwheels, passing directly under Callan in mid-leap and intercepting the middle Demon, catching it off-guard in the feint, landing upright with her tonfas spinning and striking.
Here it was, happening before him, the tales of Demons and Dragons come to life. Brutal and terrifying. In a way they were easier to believe in when they were only stories. Seeing the combat before him shook Marshal to the core, his hands still shaking, the world suddenly more... Just more than he was ready for. But there was the third Demon on the right, starting to charge forward in the ruins, coming to tip the balance of the battle. Marshal dropped his staff and raised the pistol in both hands.
The first shot was wide, the second high, and then it was too late. The distance bridged, the Demon pouncing at Wraith. Except right at that moment, Callan sank his claws into the arm of his opponent and dropped into a controlled roll that took the Demon off-balance, the roll continuing until Callan could plant his feet against the creature and kick out. Catapulting the Demon through the air to collide with the third one, knocking it off-course just as Wraith drove her tonfas into the eyes of her opponent. Tearing them free, Callan leaping, the Dragons descending on the left and right Demons, tangled and stunned. Killing blows.
And Marshal saw that they were so much more than even the tales told of them.
The War Mask made her voice low and metallic. “Hurry,” Wraith said, gesturing at Marshal. “We have to move. Frontline has fallen.”
The zone between Haven and Frontline was quiet. Ash and the corpses of buildings. As a member of the Staves, he had never ventured this far into the ruins. If he had waited three days a Sword would have been able to escort him but for some reason he had elected to undertake the journey alone. The Arcana, after a brief and private deliberation, for some reason, had approved. He carried the staff, more symbol than weapon, his satchel, one pistol with two spare clips (a gift from the Coins). In the boiling murk of sky the jagged bulks of corrupted Eyes hovered and drifted; the injection of Cloak coursed through his bloodstream (a gift from the Cups), masking him from their cavernous gaze. He whispered the mantras taught to him by Arcana Five, wrangling his nervous neural patterns into docile shapes in case the Eyes peered into the psychic spectrum. The Swords said that they rarely did, not over the border zone, since there was little life left to see.
It was quiet but not silent. Moaning winds, rubble settling, steel creaking. Too easy to imagine as the sounds of ghosts. He walked on, staff in hand, mantras in his mind. Until one of the ambient haunting noises became too regular to be random. Something was following him. If it wasn't a Sword patrol (still three days away) or a Coin shipment (none scheduled), then that meant it was...
He drew the pistol, visualized the pattern that Arcana Eleven had taught him, and turned to face the direction of the noise. He had never ventured this far into the ruins. He had never seen a live Demon. The Swords were trained to fight Demons. If he had waited three days he wouldn't be alone. He wondered why he had felt the need to leave immediately. He watched the pocked and razored carapace of the creature lurch forth from the skeleton of a skyscraper. It was somehow shiny in the permanent twilight and giving off smoke like charred wood. He wondered why the Arcana had agreed to let him travel alone. He was sure that he was getting the visualization wrong, forgetting the mantras. He had read every account there was of the Swords' encounters with Demons, he had read every research paper written about them. When it moved it made a sound like poisoned lungs wheezing for their last breath. He pointed the pistol. It began to growl.
Except the growl was not coming from the Demon. From behind him instead. Becoming a snarl, then above him, becoming a roar, and another creature leaping through the air over him towards the Demon. Claws and fangs flashing. There was a collision, the wheezing pitched up into a scream, blood suddenly erupting, a thick stench of infection. The new creature tearing and rending, smaller than the Demon but more savage, the shape of a man, almost.
He had read all of the accounts from the Swords who had travelled to Frontline and back to Haven, their stories of the guardians there who led the forces against the Demon Army. Most of them were likely embellished, understandably exaggerated, fables for morale. The Dragons, they called them. Exactly who he was searching for. So he recognized who stood before him, over the corpse of the Demon, by description, which turned out to be true and not a tall tale after all. The Mystic Warrior, the Tiger Man.
